The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Saturday, June 12, 2010

the monica leech migrate-in

Osama Bin Laden, Muammur Qadaffi and the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini went into a pub.
They saw property developer Jim Mansfield drinking at the bar.
Jim Mansfield had picked the shadiest nook in the pub to posit himself.
Jim Mansfield at this moment was a shady property developer.

Since he was in a shady nook.
Arf arf.
A very very super extra shady property developer indeed.

Jim Mansfield was in fact at this moment the shadiest property developer in the Republic of Ireland.
And he was that most dangerous type of shady property developer.
A shady property developer with a Muslim fetish.
Osama, Muammur and Ruhollah approached him.
"Eh Jim," said the Muslome threesome in unison. "How's she cuttin? Any chance you'd get us a few ould English lessons? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And how's about throwin in some ould Irish passports while you're at it, dere's a good lad. And maybe a few ould hang sangidges for deh day dat's in it."
Mansfield looked at them suspiciously.
The world is full of Muslims wanting to learn English the way the Irish speak it.
But Jim is careful who he smuggles into Ireland.
He doesn't just offer transit to every Ahmed, Dick, and Mohammed who wanders up to him in a pub.
"You don't look like f---ing Saudi Arabians to me," proclaimed Mansfield suspiciously. "I'm only smuggling Saudi Arabians. I mean educating. I'm only educating Saudi Arabians. You could be ephin Iranians or shaggin Libyans for all I know."
"What we do on our own time," is our own business said Colonel Qadaffi coolly misunderstanding the intransitive nature of Jim's expressions ephin Iranians and shaggin Libyans.
"I've a good mind to self detonate," muttered the Ayatollah.
"Or better yet, let's get some uneducated third world Arab peasant to self detonate for us," put in Osama with his famous cheeky chappy grin.
Mansfield favoured them with a cool assessive stare.
"You'll do," he said after a moment. "Here. Fill out these forms and you can start at my spanking new English Language College in Dublin in the morning. And no Muammur, Spanking in this instance is an intransitive adjective qualifying the word new. It doesn't mean you'll learn new ways to beat the maids to death. It means we built the thing yesterday. And if you want passports you'll have to buy them off Albert Reynolds and the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail party yourselves. And as for hang sangidges... To hell with poverty, we'll kill a hin."

Friday, June 11, 2010

on the immortality of hamsters

Evening at the Chateau.
"Are you going to be going around with a long face for the next month because of the hamster?"
"No Mama. Probably just for a week or two."
"You shouldn't be too sad. She had a great life. That's all that matters."
"Grief is a gift from God Mama."
"Yes but it's not much fun to look at."
"I can only grieve because I have loved."
"You're nuts."
"Everything God makes is good. God puts a particular grace in the little creatures too. I hold that when he makes any spirit, it is eternal. He is such a perfect craftsman that he is unable to make anything that does not last forever. I have high hopes that Hammy and I shall meet again in heaven."
"Let me out of here."
When she had gone, the ghost of WH Auden appeared.
"Don't worry Heelers," he said softly, "what will last of us is love."

Thursday, June 10, 2010

the peace that surpasseth understanding

Mrs Hungary's child Peter.

heeler the peeler's supernatural tales of yoikes and honey i think if the house wants us to leave we should just go

Falling asleep this morning about 7am.
I had been reading a book about supposed apparitions of the Blessed Virgin Mary in various parts of the world.
The book is called The Miracles Of Mary, and was written by Bridget Curran.
It's published in Ireland by Mercier Press.
I find the subject matter very interesting.
The accounts of apparitions at Pontmain, Beauraing and Banneaux bring a tear to my eye.
Some of the others are also pretty nifty.
Particularly Fatima and Lourdes.
Lourdes is a noteworthy apparition bold readers, not least because a Hollywood style film was made about it yonks ago, starring among others Vincent Price.
My point is that the film was made at a time when film making methods might seem fairly quaint by our standards today.
And for some reason it hasn't dated.
I would have thought it would have to be corny or twee or contrived.
But I challenge you.
See it.
And tell me I'm wrong.
There's just something about it.
The author of The Miracles Of Mary, Bridget Curran has reserved her judgement on the more recent claimed apparitions at Medjugorje whose witnesses aver that they are still underway.
Nor does she mention the interesting Spanish case at Garabandal in the 1960's which is dismissed as not genuine by many who believe in other apparitions.
My own assessment of these things must be taken in context with how much I would love the apparitions to be true.
When I have sought to devise a conspiracy theory around them, the only thing I could come up was some sort of hypnosis.
I postulated that a faction within Catholicism might have been seduced by the false idea of promoting the ancient faith through a lie.
The various visionaries, many of whom have been children, would then have been hypnotised to believe they saw the blessed mother at specific times and dates.
The faction would have had to operate across many countries where similar apparitions have taken place.
The faction would always have been under threat from any Christian within the conspiracy who suddenly decided that Jesus' proscription on lying meant even this sort of lying was untenable.
If such a conspiracy existed within the Catholic Church it would have to have been functioning for at least the past 200 years.
Could any conspiracy run for so long without someone breaking ranks?
And what are the limits of hypnosis?
Perhaps my whole conspiracy theory breaks down at the level of these limitations.
Can you hypnotise someone for a lifetime?
In any case a few nights ago, I mused aloud in the kitchen that the only way I could see the more impressive apparitions being fakes, was if the visionaries themselves had been hypnotised.
My Uncle Jim was present.
"There's no way Medjugorje is a fake," he chuckled.
"Why not?" said me.
"Because I saw it myself," quoth he.
"What did you see?" sez me.
"I saw the eucharist in the sky where the sun should have been," quoth he.
The eucharist is the communion bread which Catholic tradition teaches actually becomes Jesus during our church services.
I looked hard at my Uncle Jim.
"Could you have been hypnotised?" I asked him.
"If I was, so were thirty other people standing around me," he replied.
Back to the present moment.
It's 7am in the Chateau De Healy.
I am about to go asleep having been reading up on apparitions.
As I shut my eyes I ask the blessed mother Mary that if she wills it, to guide me to know in my inmost heart whether any or all of the apparitions I've been reading about are genuine.
"If you want me to know they're real," I prayed, "I'll be quite happy to know. I'll speak for them if you tell me to. I'll speak against them if that's what you want from me. And I'll happily stay quiet if you prefer."
I blessed myself with holy water.
As I shut my eyes I wondered what dreams might come.
A nightmare came.
Not such a terrible one.
I was able to pray to Jesus and Mary during it so the fear wasn't so great.
It was like one of those Korean ghost dreams which I've written about before.
I'm asleep.
I know I'm asleep.
There's an evil presence.
In this case the evil presence is endeavouring to smother me.
And still I say it wasn't the worst nightmare I've had.
Because I was able to pray all the way through.
I woke quickly.
As I woke I heard a sound.
It was a long low moan of pain.
Quite unearthly.
I got out of bed and ran into the hall.
The Dad joined me minutes later.
"Did you hear that?" I asked him.
"I did," he answered.
I did a quick tour of the house.
Nothing untoward.
I checked with the Mammy who was still in bed.
"Did you hear anything just now?" I enquired.
"Some sort of a cry," she said sleepily.
"What did you think it was?" sez me.
"It sounded like a cow," murmured the Mammy.
"What would a cow be doing in our house?" I persisted.
"I didn't care enough to get out of bed," rejoined the Mammy dismissively rolling over in the blankets.
I withdrew to the hall.
Flumped by the door Paddy Pup eyed me fondly.
"Was it you Paddler?" I mused. "Could you ever make a sound like that?"

government by the daily mail for the daily mail of the daily mail

The Daily Mail has been continuing its sad attempts to insert itself into the soul of the Irish nation by pressuring the government here to dose little girls with a new pharmaceutical product.
This of course is a neat tie in with the Daily Mail's strongest source of revenue.
To wit, under the counter payments from pharmaceutical companies.
Here is the news.
The pharmaceutical product which the Daily Mail is pressuring the Irish government to dose school girls with, is the pharmaceutical companies' response to a gap in revenue flow arising from the discrediting of other pharmaceutical products.
The gap in revenue flow is also attributable to the pharmaceutical companies' fears about staging another fake swine flu epidemic this year.
They think they mightn't get away with it this time.
This is not about public health needs.
This is about cash flow baby.
The pharmaceutical product which the Daily Mail wants injected into a generation of children has not been properly tested, being backed up with nothing except a few meagre in house clinical trials performed by the pharmaceutical companies themselves and their associates, supposedly over a five year period.
The pharmaceutical product which the Daily Mail is advocating be compulsorily injected into hundreds of thousands of school girls, is being justified with statistical sleight of hand whereby the claimed benefits consist of an unproven and unprovable possibility that the Daily Mail's pharmaceutical product du jour may eventually forty years in the future result in some sort of notional reduction of cervical cancer risk in a tiny minority of the children who have been dosed with it.
The pharmaceutical product which the Daily Mail is championing for kids brings to mind a similar societal wide pharmaceutical marketing campaign last year when the pharmaceutical companies, with the assistance of the Daily Mail, contrived an utterly fictional international swine flu epidemic in order to manipulate idiot governments into paying up for an unnecessary swine flu vaccine, a pharmaceutical product that the idiot governments duly flocked to purchase and which only succeeded in making healthy people sick.
The pharmaceutical product which the Daily Mail is currently seeking to promote on behalf of its shadowy pharmaceutical company advertisers, is raising warning signals in certain medical quarters with concerns expressed that the said pharmaceutical product may have caused paralysis and death in some of the people it has already been used on.

the monicaaargh leech laugh in

This one's supposed to be true.
Hard drugging musician Phil Lynnott went to television presenter Leslie Crowther to ask for permission to marry his daughter.
"Mr Crowther I wonder could I ask you for the hand of your daughter in marriage," said Phil Lynnott in his thick tongued Dublin mumble.
"You might as well take her hand," replied Leslie Crowther bitterly, "you've already taken everything else."

Wednesday, June 09, 2010


in the stillness it was you
softly i bid
how can you be phantom
you are not dead
and you replied
except that i live
truly have i died
but i came here to forgive
outside in the east
the sun took dominion
never was a dawn
so like redemption

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

our television listings

(Ireland's national fraudcaster. A television station of the liberal atheists by the liberal atheists for the liberal atheists, but financed by compulsory taxation on the Catholic citizenry who are prevented by law from setting up television stations of their own.)
1.25 Home And Away. Public service programme aimed at introducing teenagers to pornography.
1.55 Neighbours. Australian anthropological documentary.
2.20 Eastenders. This week, Al Qaeda nukes London while Foreign Secretary William Hague is busy calling for an investigation into Israel's interception of a Hamas terrorist supply convoy. Come back David Milipede all is forgiven.
3.00 Life Without Me. No one will watch this programme so I'm not going to review it.
3.30 Grand Designs. See above.
4.40 Rachel's Favourite Food For Living. Cookery or crookery? This evening Rachel cooks Sunday lunch at a friend's house on my dime.
5.15 The Restaurant. Proof positive that staff at RTE are the most well fed television professionals in the western world.
5.40 Nuacht. Bless you.
6.00 The Angelus. Quasimodo converts to liberal atheism and the bells fall silent.
6.01 News. Read by Insert Name Of Commie here.
7.00 Living The Wildlife. Emmy award winning cameraman Colin Awffley Awffley Stafford Johnson goes in pursuit of Ireland's bat population on my dime. This episode is recommended by the Irish Times television critic. Awffley Awffley must have found a colony of abortionist bats or something.
7.30 Eastenders. Who can get enough of this light hearted life affirming take on modern living?
8.00 Fair City. Judith threatens Bob with legal action. Suzanne is unimpressed with Damien, while Mark jumps to conclusions... The previous sentence is the press release RTE sent to journalists and is intended to make you want to watch this programme. Really they're brilliant. Give em another five hundred million quid of public money.
8.30 My Showhouse. Julieanne and Snodgrass have just purchased their first home together. Pass the sick bag Ernst.
9.00 News. If nothing happens in the world today, the news will be replaced with a documentary programme about the heroic Islamist Pie Eye Steen Yuns and their permanent losing terrorist war with the State of Israel. Why won't those naughty Israelis just lie down and let the Muslims win?
9.35 Prime Time. Current affairs programme where RTE's selected panel of atheists sneer in unison at the Catholic church.
10.15 The Limits Of Liberty. Another recommended viewing choice from the Irish Times critic. Need I say more?
11.15 The View. Arts programme which manages quite magnificently to be the antithesis of art.
12.00 Medium. Unwatchable sub teen gloop.
12.55 News. Followed by a chance for viewers to sign up with RTE's own branch of Al Qaeda.
1.00 Love Is The Devil: Study For A Portrait Of Francis Bacon. Biopic of Irish Times television critic Tony Cleaton Lea. Okay, I made that up. But Tony Cleaton Lea's review of this film is salutory. He wrote: "Attempting to approximate the singular style of the paintings of Francis Bacon, director and cowriter John Maybury flirts dangerously with the pretentious." Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, chortle, haaaaa, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, haaa, haaa, haaa, ah Lordy, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, heeeee, heee, hee, hee, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, oh mercy. The ghost of Francis Bacon should sue the Irish Times.

bullshitting archy

Someone approached me this week and with great vehemence proclaimed that my writings about Archbishop Diarmuid Martin were "bullshit."
For once I didn't answer.
I have spent a few months suggesting that newspapers and broadcasters were anti Catholic and were using the tiny minority of sex abuse cases arising within the Catholic Church over the past half century as part of an ongoing media campaign to repudiate Christianity in the Republic of Ireland.
I had noted that the behaviour of Archbishop Diarmuid Martin in seeking to force a generation of Bishops from office and to deny them the right to speak for themselves was deeply manipulative, unjust and opprobrious.
I have indicated that it is my analysis that Archbishop Diarmuid Martin is a pseudo progressive infiltrator of the Catholic Church working hand in glove with the atheistic anti Catholic media.
I have warned that one of the problems with this anti Catholic pogrom, aside from it being a pogrom, is that the vast preponderance of child abuse cases, particularly the record number which are happening now all over Ireland in family homes, sports clubs, hospitals and Health Board run institutions, the incalculable majority I say, are being ignored.
I have suggested that the official figure for the number of children murdered while in the care of Ireland's secular Health Boards during just the past decade would far exceed the total of 25 which the Health Boards were admitting to.
I had sought to raise public awareness of the Health Boards' deliberate concealment of information about the children being murdered in Health Board care by Health Board members of staff.
A few weeks ago, the Health Board Executive revised upwards the number of children it admitted had died in its care to 37.
Last week the Health Board Executive again revised upwards the number of children it admitted had died in its care to 150.
There will be more.
You understand.
These people are murderers concealing their murders behind frivolous legalisms.
No other generation of Irishmen would have let them away with it.
They have gotten away with it for so long because our anti Catholic media simply weren't interested in the most extreme child abuse cases as these didn't involve anyone who could be linked to the Catholic Church.
To be honest this weekend with the publication of the new list of Health Board murders, I'd been expecting people to start approaching me to tell me I'd been right about these matters and maybe even to thank me for my efforts.
As we now know, it didn't happen.
On the contrary I was approached by an individual who wished to tell me my writings about Archbishop Diarmuid Martin were bullshit.
I was genuinely stunned.
I honestly thought the individual was coming to tell me I'd been right about everything and to humbly apologise for not helping me one iota in my attempts to speak truth to power.
Look at me bold readers.
I'm not ranting right this moment.
I am a wiser weaker man.

Monday, June 07, 2010

miracle week

Chatting with the Contessa in a cafe at Stephens Green.
She was wearing a track suit.
Her hair was tied back.
She was making no attempt to be beautiful.
Which is of course when she's at her most stunning.
"Why do you want Jesus to come back?" she enquired.
"Well he's coming back whether I want him to or not," sez me.
"But why do you care? Why does it matter?" quoth she.
"Evgenia," sez me, "every joy, every pleasure, every good thing you've ever encountered in life is just the faintest reflection of the goodness of God. Every good thing in this world is there to direct us to the true goodness, the true beauty, the true eternal love of God. The most wonderful thing you've ever encountered in life is just the vaguest hint of the joy Jesus brings. We were made to know God. Everything lovely, beautiful and true that we experience in this life points to him. When he returns, as he will return soon, everything bad will be defeated for all time. Evil will no longer have any power. That's why I want him to come back. But also because his return will be the return of my oldest and best friend. God is returning. He is returning so that we may enter the kingdom of eternal life. This is the happiness we were made for. This is the perfect happiness which all the happinesses of this life are trying to tell us about."
"Well why doesn't he just end the power of evil from where he is and not bother coming back?" said the Russki.
"Evgenia," murmured I, "this is the best friend you ever had. This is the best friend any of us ever had. This is the God who invented the joys of friendship and gave them to us as a gift. God's love is the truest love in the universe because it is the love that creates all love. Do you think you could be happy with a friendship or a love affair conducted from afar? Could you be happy if the person who meant most to you remained absent from you? I mean it's possible to have friendships by internet or by phone. And those friendships are gifts too. But when you have a friend or a companion or a lover, the friendship, the companionship and the love is only really fulfilled when you are together. Could you really be satisfied if the best friend you ever had, chose not to be with you? Chose to keep a distance between you and just give you gifts without ever sharing your enjoyment of those gifts?"
"But what if he doesn't come back for two hundred years?" she wondered.
"He may not come back for two hundred years," said I. "It may be longer. It may be two thousand."
"So?" quoth she.
"So what?" quoth me.
"So you said he's coming soon," sez she.
"Soon is in the eye of the beholder," sez me.
"Well," said the Contessa, "if he doesn't come soon, you'll have spent your life waiting for him to come back. Think of what you'll have missed."
"Evi, Jesus had a one liner. No one gives up anything for me without getting back ten thousand times as much, and in the world to come eternal life. I think I've seen something of the truth of this. Following Jesus doesn't mean you miss out on something. It means that you savour life much more than you ever thought possible. It means you get to know yourself much better. All sorts of gifts come to you. Gifts of the spirit, gifts of wisdom, gifts of friendship. You find joy in places you never suspected. You are freed from afflictions that have enslaved you without you ever knowing it. Suddenly it's as though you begin to see heaven right here, right now. This is what I think Jesus meant. If you come to know Jesus as God, you are already in some mystical way, partly in heaven. The English writer CS Lewis thought this was the case. CS Lewis thought not only are you in some strange way already in heaven when you come to know Jesus, but that the grace of this heaven works backwards through time, so that evils and afflictions that happened in the past lose their power. And presently you realise, not only are you in heaven, but that in some strange but true way, you've always been in heaven. Anyway I think I've seen something of this. But I don't pretend to understand it. The whole idea makes me remember another of Jesus' one liners. People once asked Jesus where heaven was and he told them: No one can say where heaven is or when heaven is, for, look, the kingdom of heaven is within you. That lines is sometimes translated as: The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Or: The kingdom of heaven is among you. But the idea remains the same. Heaven is closer than any of us ever dream."
"James what do you want from God?"
"Well in this life I love seeing miracles. I'd love if he'd let me see a person in a wheelchair get up and walk. That would be a cracker. I'd dine out on that. I'd be talking about it all the time. I love those miracles. Love them."
"Why just one?" pouted she. "Why not ask him to heal a million of them?"
"God isn't my servant," I mused. "There may be purposes in someone's suffering that I don't know about. But I do ask him for those sorts of healings. I know we're allowed to. So I ask for them. All the time. And you know one of the reasons God mightn't answer my prayers would be the amount of evil in my life that I'm not willing to let go of. Some Christians believe the sins we haven't repented of, actually block the healing action of hte Holy Spirit. There's something else Genia. About the million healings I might ask for. The Jews used to say if you save a single soul you save the whole world. I just feel that if God suspends reality, changes reality, and allows a person to walk who can't walk, I just feel it's not a limited miracle, it's more than I am entitled to hope for except by Jesus intervention, it's more than I can do myself. If I was granted one of those healings, really it should be enough for me to put on sack cloth and never ask God for anything again. I wouldn't. I'd keep asking. But can you see what I'm saying. For one person in a wheelchair to get up and walk, would be limitlessly beautiful, limitlessly glorious. It's not about then saying: Right, now heal everyone. I'm not giving God orders. I'm asking him to do something. And maybe some of those people are in wheelchairs because God wants selfish people like me to learn to love and care for them and relate to them as people not just as people in wheelchairs. Maybe through their suffering God makes me less of a monster. Maybe through my prayers for them, I am healed. And you know for all the miracles I've asked of God, I've never once fasted on bread and water for a day. I've asked him to wave the magic wand but I haven't actually made any real effort myself. Anyway, yes I think we can ask for any number of healings. And yes I think we have to remember we're asking. Not ordering God around. In those sorts of prayers we find out what a human being is and who God is, and little by little who we are. And you know Eva, Jesus said we'd do greater miracles than he did if we truly believed. My soul hungers for this. Just one. I'd love it. A poet would understand. When I'm writing poems I'm trying to write the most earth shattering beautiful epic blatt thud poems ever. But in my heart I know. If over a lifetime I wrote one genuinely good poem, that would be enough. It's more than most poets ever do."
Evgenia looked at me pensively.
"I will think about what you've said," she murmured.

On Tuesday, Rowena sent me a photo of baby George. The doctors didn't think he would live. He's five pounds now and drinking milk.

A day later, Teresa Moston rang me and told me that the tumours in her father Ron Moston's arms and back had fallen out. I'd been following the case closely. Ron had gone to a faith healer with these growths. I would normally be very careful about faith healers. I think many of them are con artists. A lot of faith healers seem cruel and callous to me. I think they give people false hope. And I'm not too sure that the church is okay with them either. But Ron insisted on going to this particular faith healer he knew. Two months ago I'd asked Ron's doctor what he thought of Ron's decision to go to a faith healer. The doc refused to discuss the case with me. But when I asked the question based on knowledge I already had, he shook his head grimly.
"He's going to die," he told me.
Now when Teresa rang me with the good news about the growths falling out of Ron's arm this week, I immediately phoned my doctor friend.
"Did you hear Ron Moston's growths fell out?" I asked.
The Doc said he'd heard nothing but that it was great news if it was true as no one deserved a healing more.
"Do you remember telling me he was making the wrong decision going to the faith healer?" I prodded.
"I don't really," said the Doc.
"Do you remember saying he was going to die?" I insisted.
"Honestly Jim no," said the Doc.
"I wanted to ask you was this a miracle?" I went on.
"I don't know," said the Doc.

On Thursday, Bill Broundslow phoned from England. His kidneys had started to fail when he was a teenager. He had lived into adult life without ever having a transplant. Just six months ago his condition worsened. He was told by doctors that his kidney function had dropped dangerously low and that he would need a transplant shortly.
Tonight he told me: "I just had another blood test. The doctor said he couldn't understand it. He says my kidney function has returned to what it was ten years ago. He kept saying he didn't understand it and I told him that I understood it alright because there were people back in Ireland praying for me in front of the divine mercy image of Jesus. The doctor still thinks I'll need a transplant in five years. I said to him: Wait and see!"

Friday. Afternoon with my nephews and nieces and a passle of neighbours kids. Amid the general joyful fracas, I addressed the Deity briefly: "This doesn't count God. Making me into Goodbye Mr Chips doesn't count. It's not what I asked for." My imagination or the universe or something else replied: "You always wanted to be the great man or the father of great men. Would it be so terrible for you to be the councillor to great men?"

Saturday. Found five hundred quid in the pocket of an old tracksuit that my brother Peter had given me.

On Sunday night at 1.30am in the morning I was sitting in the kitchen poring over the latest reports from Gaza. The Dad was ensconced in late night sport on the satelite channels. The door of the Chateau opened. I heard footsteps in the hall. Who would be calling on us in the middle of the night?
My cousin Mycroft walked into the kitchen with her man.
"I'm having a baby," she said.

Sunday, June 06, 2010


airborne insects hum
homeward go they homeless
and propose this street lamp or that car light
as the all important centre of the universe
purposeless they try again
to divine transcendent purpose
the light that animates their bodies
shines from the centre of the universe